


Written Fate

by mizukiryu73



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Gen, Harry is Thorin, Maybe fluff, and lots of angst, but not for a while, but not reincarnation, but not stupid, hogwarts will appear, magic is involved, mostly angst, not really - Freeform, thorin is oblivious, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizukiryu73/pseuds/mizukiryu73
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some say fate is written, that the path the soul takes is etched in stone. But the soul is a many splendored thing, and is not so easily defined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written Fate

**Lost**

Harry isn't quite sure how his mission sneaking into the Ministry had gone so wrong. The time seemed to pass in dull flashes, the only constant the insubstantial weight of the prophecy orb bouncing against his leg as he dodged the vividly surreal spell fire of his attackers. He knew he'd managed to nearly lose them once, but in the process he'd been separated from his friends. Luckily, or not, the Death Eaters were far more intent on capturing him, and the distant parts of Harry's mind hoped that his friends would remain safe until help could arrive.

Not that any help given to them would be of any use to him, lost as he was in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries. The rooms had long since lost any obviously discernible sense of meaning the deeper Harry fled, leaving him both unknowing of the experiments he passed and unable to find anything indicating a way out.

So, he continued running, ducking into a small hallway filled with what appeared to be either an abundance of overly large broom cupboards or painfully tiny offices. Knowing his attackers would not remain out of sight for long, Harry quickly set to work seeing if any of the doors would open. Not quite frantic, Harry tried every door, only finding success on the last. Which looked particularly ominous, shrouded in the murky shadows cast by the sole light flickering at the hallway opening as it was. At any other time, Harry would have tried to find shelter elsewhere, but the increasingly loud shouts of his pursuers forced his hand.

Swiftly entering the room, he cast about for anything within that might hold the door shut. His search was depressingly brief, as the only thing in the room was a small plinth with a book resting upon it. Despite being quite plain, Harry found himself unable to look away. In fact, he never heard the lock click over, so enraptured was he by gently tracing the single word on the cover. It seemed strangely ( _achingly_ ) familiar, for all it looked an unreadable variant of some foreign runic alphabet. He completely disregarded (could not even  _hear_ ) the muffled shouts from the other side of the door that entreated him to walk away, to leave the room.

Instead, he gingerly lifted the cover, fingers swiftly but carefully flipping through the pages. He does not ( _can_  not) hear the voices cease their desperate shouts, to be quickly replaced with hushed and awed whispers, augmented by a voice heavy with power as he stopped his search on a seemingly random page that was empty of any ink. He did not feel the sudden spike in pressure as the newest voice began chanting a spell to open the door, his attention was so focused on the spiky runes that had quickly filled the page as his fingers traced the letters at the top of the page. Indeed, he did not even notice his vision go black as he slumped bonelessly to the floor, just as the door disappeared in a flash of white smoke and a muffled bang.

In that moment all he knew was the single word dancing in the darkness behind his eyelids.

 _Thorin_.

**Wyrm**

He is twenty-four when the dragon attacks his home, and in that moment he has never hated anything so fiercely as he  _hates_ that wyrm. He does not even hate the havoc caused by his Grandfather's gold sickness, whose steady decline into madness had long led the war between fear and hate in his heart. Now it simply fills him with disgust, because he must divert precious attention from rescue efforts to ensure Father successfully got Grandfather out of the mountain.

Despair wells up as he watched the scraggling line of survivors fleeing the mountain, the once large population of Erebor reduced to a few thousand desperate refugees. The Elves of Mirkwood had long since turned their backs. The Men of Dale were as helpless as the Dwarves, their homes too victim to the dragon's wrath. (And he knows the cloying smell of burning flesh will haunt his dreams, because it suffocates in the heavy air.)

The only shining spot in the darkness of the desolation was that both his siblings were safe. Although Frerin was barely 20 and Dís had just reached her tenth year, both were attempting to burrow into his side, leaching what little comfort he could offer. Even then, not more than three hours after their home had fallen, Thorin knew it would fall to him to ensure  _they_ remained safe, even more so than the rest of his people. Because for now Grandfather was still king, but Mother was dead and Father was already preoccupied with ensuring Grandfather remained alive.

With that in mind, Thorin pulled his little sister up into his arms and gently dislodged his brother to set Frerin to gathering up the dwarves. Because night was falling, and Thorin could tell by the argument erupting between Father and Grandfather that he needed to see it done. But even as he watches the makeshift camp take shape, he could not shake the doubts that seeped into his thoughts.

Because he is only  _twenty-four_ , and for all of his lessons in leadership, he has only just been allowed to sit on the Council for this past summer. He is still but a novice in the trade of the line of Durin, and his weapons training, while advancing, could hardly be called anything more than barely passing the level of a journeyman in the Guard if one described it generously. He can only be grateful that he was at weapons practice when the dragon attacked, and that he managed to keep hold of his sword in his haste to see his family safely out of the mountain. But his single blade would be of little use to anyone else, for most had fled with only the clothes on their backs. Their only hope for supplies would be in Laketown, but it was little more than a trading outpost of Dale. However, it would already be a weakened with the refugees of the fallen city, and little aid would be spared for the dwarves.

These thoughts tugged at his mind for several hours, before he could finally fall into an uneasy sleep filled with strange dreams. But when he wakes, the memory of them is long gone, and all that lingers is a deep sense of unease and what must be a name lingering in his throat. It is something that he swiftly buries as he faces the day and his newfound responsibilities.

Still...

Who  _was_ Harry Potter?

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say, I've fallen into the Hobbit fandom, and my muse attacked. This is my first fic on here, but I'm also on FFN so…  
> This is planned as four chapters, but we'll have to see. (This also currently is gen, but I am open to being convince for relationships…. *hintreviewhint*)


End file.
